Once again we are confronted with what I’ve come to term “massive news:” a kind of sensory overload of events, images, experiences, some personal, some global, all seeming to demand a response, a notice, a pause, a commentary. Media coverage, and lack thereof (BBC fills the gap nicely here), of what Hurricane Katrina uncovered concerning the real state of race and poverty in the South is only the most visible “story.”

Mentioned, but hardly noticed by many, was the death of hundreds of Shi’ite pilgrims in Iraq, who stampeded when the rumor of a suicide bomber ran riot on a crowded bridge. Nearer to home, a dear member of our Shining Heart Community, Alimah, embraced the Beloved and passed beyond our sight.

As of this writing, there’s been an earthquake in Papua New Guinea, workers who escaped from New Orleans have made it to one of my places of employment, Whole Foods, and are beginning work and new lives, suicide bombings are practically a daily occurrence in some part of Iraq, another Hurricane spins off the coast of Florida (albeit probably not as dangerous as Katrina), and all the American people seem to be able to do is fret and complain about what cannot be controlled—which is of course, practically everything.

I’m not sure what “truth” can be said about all of this. I’m reminded of a sentiment voiced by both Inayat Khan and the famous 20^th century Analytic Philosopher, Ludwig Wittgenstein: “It is no use saying you know the truth; if you knew the truth, you would keep silent.” (Khan); and “All philosophy ends in silence.” (Wittgenstein).

We know that something important is “going on.” But then, something important is always going on. At the end of each life, each unexpected trauma, and in the middle of the most extended catastrophes there seems to be this silence of truth: the quiet of the French Quarter, enforced by flood waters and soldiers; the silent pause before realizing an “aw(e)ful” truth, or that is said to immediately follow a natural disaster; the deep, internal silence that, for me, always accompanies being informed of the death of a friend.

It is as if the world stops, almost bowing, before some immeasurable immensity, a nameste to the greater unseen reality from which all material existence emerges. Weeping, wailing, screaming, blaming and name-calling may immediately follow: but the first response, even of the natural world, seems to be this silent acknowledgement that is beyond hope and tears.

There’s a part of me that’s begun to wonder if that pause might also be the place where new possibilities are given very real (not just symbolic) birth, not only in this world, but in many others. What we experience are the painful contractions of literal “new life.”

When I learned of Alimah’s passing, I sat very silently in front of my office computer for a long time. I could not, did not feel sorrow, although I knew that I would miss the conversations that we had only just begun. It was a kind of awe, an acknowledgement of journeys, hers and mine, even a gratitude for change; that she is on her way, I am on mine, and somewhere in that journey, we exchanged sincere, if brief, greetings.

I have been more amazed than horrified by the aftermath of Katrina: on some level, we (the collective we of the U.S., even of the planet) have known this was “going to happen,” it’s not like it wasn’t pretty accurately foreseen. I’m not assigning blame: it’s more an example of how realities are both individually and co-mutually created, through mechanisms of denial, defiance and even adventure-seeking (by some).

Does that mean we don’t help people? Of course it doesn’t—as Patti Smith once declared: “We created it, let’s take it over!” Responsibility implies that we acknowledge our part in things and move to assist and correct when we can.

Individual tragedies? On a practical level, absolutely, there are many. National tragedy?. I’ll punt with the Jewish mystical rebbe who said: “Maybe, we’ll see,” knowing full well that the entire story was not known, had not been told, had not unfolded yet.

And so the readings. They are all about struggles, trauma, and realization, personal, global, cosmic. They collectively acknowledge death, rebirth, sorrow and insistence on the larger view. They are unexpected, startling, perhaps even unpleasant for some.

They are what prophets have told us. Allah gives, Allah takes away. Our neighbors, friends, companions, sometimes even we ourselves, are mechanisms of the death-severing, sometimes, the tools of re-assembling re-birth. We never know.

I watched a CNN reporter weep from his boat as he floated down a deserted New Orleans street witnessing and recording live people trapped in buildings, crying for help. He could not help them, did not have the means, and it drove him a little mad. Returning to the set, silence and truth reigned for the briefest of moments in the CNN studio, only to be interrupted by a commercial break.

Many folks remember the deep silence that followed in the days immediately after 9/11. No trains, no planes, the unearthly blue magnificence of preternaturally early autumn skies. The New York Times reported that a homeless man (who had been homeless prior to Katrina, and so was experiencing, in his perception, only a slight worsening of his condition) admitted that life was somewhat harder on the streets now, but “It is wonderful to be able to look up and see the stars from the city.”

Just the other day, as I encouraged 20 young Midshipmen to discuss the implications of what they had read in the Bhagavad Gita, a deep silence descended and enfolded the classroom when the entire body of them realized, collectively, that none of them had ever really thought about what “heaven” for them (a possible post-death existence) might be.

They tried to ply me with images gathered from Milton, Dante and TV, but then realized that, again collectively, not a single one of them had any idea of their own regarding an afterlife, had not even experienced this consideration. They had been taught about death, but not about life, here or beyond, they had assumed it would be just be “given,” like an assignment of marching orders. Perhaps, for soldiers, such is a valid assumption that keeps sanity in place. The classroom silence became a kind of wonder, then embarrassment, as many of them knew that truth had passed through all of us. They all stared at me, wide-eyed, and I looked back and them and smiled, and then went on.

In these days of endless drama, trauma and wonder, silence is truth unveiled, revealed: truth about endings and beginnings, deaths and rebirths into other realms. This is the action of the Presence as it strolls through both Garden and Charnel House with equal regard for the living and the dead, light and dark giving co-mutual birth to one another. The righteous and the sinner are aspects of one divine economy and even a Judas may become necessary for the workings of salvation.

“When we are face to face with truth, the point of view of Krishna, Buddha, Christ, or any other Prophet, is the same. When we look at life from the top of the mountain, there is no limitation; there is the same immensity.”